


When the World is Quiet and Still

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Stop dithering with your toothpaste and light this for me,’ Sherlock ordered, pushing his chin out, shoving the matches into John’s hand.</i>
</p>
<p>January, 1944. Sherlock learns the tale behind John's war wound, which is followed by life and relationship-affirming sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the World is Quiet and Still

**Author's Note:**

> I lied when I said this would be the second of two linked parts - it's looking like it'll be the middle of three! I'm also tentatively hoping to get a regular posting schedule together for this, but we'll see. The title is from [There’s a Land of Begin Again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEoNdMVD_p0).

_January, 1944_

‘It’s been years,’ John said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror above the sink in the bathroom. He stood barefooted in his vest and brown trousers, about to squeeze some toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

Sherlock carried on undoing his tie, letting it hang loose as he pressed a kiss in between John’s shoulder blades.

‘It’s... God, it’s been nearly three years since we last...’

‘Please don’t have a crisis,’ Sherlock said, sitting on the edge of the bath, just in his shirt and underwear. He pulled his cigarette case towards him from where he’d left it on the toilet cistern after his bath. He prised the hinge open, picking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. ‘I’m sure everything’s still in working order,’ he said around it, opening the bathroom cabinet and taking out the box of matches he’d stashed in there.

John smiled, the expression quickly fading from his face.

‘Stop dithering with your toothpaste and light this for me,’ Sherlock ordered, pushing his chin out, shoving the matches into John’s hand.

‘Lazy bugger,’ John muttered, getting a match out and striking it one handed, cupping his trembling left hand around the flame as Sherlock puffed to light the cigarette.

Smirking, Sherlock inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. He released the smoke in one long blow towards the ceiling before straightening up and looking at John again, reaching out to squeeze John’s waist. ‘Kiss me,’ he said quietly. ‘You haven’t kissed me properly, yet.’

John smiled and stroked Sherlock’s jaw. ‘Don’t blow any of that disgusting smoke of yours into my mouth,’ he warned before bending to press his parted lips to Sherlock’s. For a moment, that was enough, until Sherlock tilted his head and John dipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, provoking a cracking sigh from Sherlock, who started kissing back eagerly, opening his mouth wider. John sucked and nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, pulling away for breath.

‘You’re a wonder, Sherlock,’ he murmured, pressing another wet kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

Shivering, (though whether it was from the cold in the bathroom, the kiss or the words he’d spoken, John couldn’t tell) Sherlock kissed John fiercely once more, taking a deep drag from his cigarette once John had straightened up and moved back to the sink.

The chill wind moaned outside the boarded up bathroom window, a draught sneaking in through a crack in the frame and a gap in the wooden board. John squeezed some toothpaste onto his brush and began to clean his teeth whilst Sherlock smoked, the combined smell of the pink herbal toothpaste and the bitter cigarette mingling in the small room. After a couple of minutes of brushing, John spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth out. Sherlock crushed his cigarette against one of the tiles and threw it into the toilet.

‘You haven’t let me see your shoulder yet,’ Sherlock said quietly, stroking the back of John’s hand.

The very edge of the scar peeped out from under John’s vest.

‘Sherlock, it’s horrible, it’s not worth seeing,’ John muttered, running the hot tap that very rarely got hot at all, splashing some water onto his face.

‘You’re talking to the man who thinks mould spores are beautiful.’ Sherlock stood, wrapped himself round John from behind, pressing his chest to John’s back and his hips to John’s bum. ‘Please?’

Sighing, John closed his eyes. ‘It really is nothing like--’

‘Please.’ Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the injured shoulder, his fingers peeling back John’s vest.

‘Just... just wait a minute.’ John pulled Sherlock’s hand away and took a breath. He fisted his hands in the hem of the cotton vest and pulled it up and over his head, closing his eyes. He kept the exit wound hidden, allowing Sherlock to look at his back, at the neat, circular bullet hole at the top of John’s shoulder blade. Sherlock’s fingertips very lightly traced the edge of it.

‘What happened?’ he asked quietly.

‘Surely you know. You’re the one who found me, after all.’

‘I know you were injured and found just outside the Tunisian capital,’ Sherlock said, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I know you were shot in the left shoulder.’

John still held his vest over his exit wound scar.

‘It was... it was the final offensive for Tunisia. I... I was on my knees behind a, well, a rock, I suppose, with three lads who’d been hit by shrapnel.’ John screwed his eyes shut, his next breath nearly a gasp. ‘It was so hot. All three of them were bleeding and I... I knew, realistically, I could only save one of them and...’

Sherlock held John tighter, burying his face in John’s neck as he listened.

‘It was so hot and they were in so much pain, I... I gave the other two as much morphine as I could, I knew I had the best chance of saving the one who’d been hit in the leg, the others... one had some shrapnel in his chest and the other had caught it in his stomach and...’

Sherlock kissed the warm patch of skin behind John’s ear.

‘I just remember... everything was so hot. The ground, the air, the shrapnel, their blood...’ John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

‘You don’t... you don’t have to--’

‘No,’ John said. ‘ _No_.’ His voice strengthened when he spoke next. ‘They came up behind me. Shot the two boys I’d given morphine to. Probably did them a favour. All I could think was _what a fucking waste of morphine_.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘There were three of them, been cut off from the main rush of the battle, I don’t... I don’t know what they’d decided to do, pick off the wounded or what, I’ve no idea.’ John licked his lips.

‘I said to them, I shouted that I was a medic over my shoulder, twisted my arm round so they could see the red cross on my sleeve. I carried on trying to save this boy’s leg, but he was screaming and crying and...’ John shook his head, eyes still closed. ‘I pulled my gun out and kept the pressure on the boy’s leg with one hand, twisted round to confront them, the ones behind. I told them if they didn’t leave me I’d... I’d have no hesitation in putting a bullet through their chest. They laughed. Like they didn’t think I’d do it. One raised his gun, aimed it at the boy’s head, the boy with the leg, the one I was trying to help and I shot him. I shot him right in chest. The other two aimed at me then and I repeated what I’d said, that if they didn’t leave me alone I’d kill them.’

There was silence for a moment as John took a few deep breaths and carried on recounting his tale. ‘I turned back to the boy with the leg and carried on, he was losing so much blood, Sherlock, I didn’t have the time to fuck about with guns. I thought they’d gone. The boy had gone unconscious and I thought they’d gone, but...’

Sherlock’s breath was nervous against John’s skin.

‘They pushed the barrel of the gun against my back, just there, where you can see. Before I had a chance to do anything, to say anything, they pulled the trigger, and, well...’

John finally opened his eyes and pulled his vest away from his body. ‘There. See?’

Sherlock lifted his head from John’s shoulder and looked at the scarred exit wound in the mirror. It was messy, star-shaped, the tight, raised skin still a deep pink and almost purple in some places. Sherlock lifted his hand to brush over it, his touch feather-light.

‘They laughed and left me for dead,’ John said. ‘I couldn’t... I couldn’t do anything for the boy, with my arm, but th--thankfully, I suppose, he never regained consciousness. I sat back against the rock. I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything but try and keep pressure on it and wait. I had a whistle, but it was no use, everyone else was too far away.’

The wind howled outside. The tap dripped.

‘All I could think was how angry you’d be with me. I could hear you in my head - _John, you idiot, why didn’t you shoot all three of them whilst you had the chance? For God’s sake. What use are you going to be to me dead in Tunisia?_ ’

John laughed weakly. Sherlock said nothing but clung onto John tighter still. ‘It’s all rather a blur after that. I suppose I was reported missing at sundown when it was all over for the day and that’s when Mycroft found out and went to you.’

Another breeze whistled into the bathroom, causing John to shiver. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Clean your teeth, I don’t want to kiss you with your mouth tasting like fags.’ John spread some toothpaste onto Sherlock’s toothbrush and handed it back to him.

Sherlock took the handle and pulled away from John, his face pale and troubled.

‘Don’t frown,’ John said, turning round, pressing a kiss just over Sherlock’s heart. ‘You’ll stick like that if the wind changes.’

‘I...’

‘Shush.’ John stretched up to kiss Sherlock, pulling gently at the curls around his nape. His own breathing was a little tight and he frowned too, just the same as Sherlock. ‘Don’t... don’t start, just... just come to bed, alright?’

Sherlock nodded and blinked.

‘I love you,’ John said quietly, kissing Sherlock’s neck before leaving the bathroom, pulling his vest back over his head. Once in the bedroom, he took his trousers off and shuddered from the cold before sliding under the bedcovers. ‘Put the lamp on, will you?’ he said when Sherlock appeared in the doorway a couple of minutes later, just in his underwear.

Doing as he was bid, Sherlock turned the Tiffany lamp on, resting atop its usual stack of books. He turned the overhead light off and slipped underneath the blankets and eiderdown and sheets next to John, moving in close.

‘Don’t go getting all melancholy,’ John whispered, pulling Sherlock’s head onto his good shoulder, stroking his hair. ‘It happened, it’s finished with, I’m alright now.’

‘I’d never have let you go,’ Sherlock mumbled against John’s chest. ‘If I’d have known, I never would have let you go.’

John laughed. ‘I’d like to have seen you try and stop me.’

‘You...’ Sherlock frowned, his eyes closed as his fingers gripped at John’s waist. ‘You haven’t the faintest idea what you mean to me, John Watson.’ His hold on John’s waist tightened. ‘You haven’t the first clue how much I--’

‘Stop it,’ John said, his voice gentle, pulling Sherlock up for a kiss that quickly turned needy and desperate.

‘Please,’ Sherlock gasped against John’s lips, swinging a leg over to straddle him, kicking half the sheets off in the process, brushing their foreheads and noses together. His large hands cupped John’s face as they kissed again. ‘John, please. Please.’

‘Yes, alright, alright,’ John whispered, pressing his thumb against Sherlock’s bottom lip. ‘Get it, go on, however you like.’

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and pulled the bedside drawer open, fumbling to unscrew the top of the jar of lubricant before dipping his fingers into the thick, clear substance. ‘I...’ he met John’s eyes and frowned again. ‘I don’t... I don’t know what I...’

‘Do you need me?’ John murmured, tracing Sherlock’s lips with his fingers. Sherlock nodded. ‘Come here, then, come and lie down up here.’

Sherlock lay back as John sat up, slicking his own fingers with the lubricant and wrapping Sherlock’s fingers around his own length.

‘Please, John.’ Sherlock stroked John outside his underwear, pushing his hand inside after a moment. ‘Please,’ he begged, splaying his long legs, tugging one-handedly at his underwear. ‘God, John, I _need_...’

‘Shh, shh, calm down,’ John said, moving Sherlock’s hand away and kneeling up, kissing Sherlock’s leg. He pulled Sherlock’s underwear down, his left hand not shaking as badly as usual. He stroked Sherlock’s length a few times, slicking his fingers again, pushing inside with two straight away, his stomach tightening as Sherlock writhed and moaned, his pale neck curved, adam’s apple protruding, head thrown back. John began to work his two fingers in and out, kissing Sherlock’s bent knees.

‘Sherlock -- _Sherlock_ ,’ he said, trying to get Sherlock’s attention as he shivered through John’s ministrations. ‘You’ll need to help. My... my shoulder, it...’

Sherlock nodded, his face and neck tinged red. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, swallowing, falling back onto the bed. ‘John, more, please, more.’

‘I’ve never known you to be this polite,’ John said with a laugh, pushing a third finger into Sherlock, frowning in concentration for a moment before he found and rubbed hard at the spot that made Sherlock groan and shake. Using his right hand, John’s movements weren’t as dexterous as usual, but got the job done. Stroking himself with his weaker left hand, sweat broke at his temples. ‘God, Sherlock, you...’

Reaching out clumsily for John, Sherlock managed to catch hold of him, stroking up and down his arm. ‘John, now. Now.’

‘Just a moment,’ John murmured, easing his fingers out of Sherlock, guiding Sherlock’s right hand onto his cock again. ‘I’m not quite... I’m sorry, it’s...’

Sherlock pulled himself upright and wrapped his arm around John’s neck, kissing him fiercely, lips pushed hard against one another, teeth clicking. Sherlock tightened his hand around John and stroked slowly, forcing little moans and shudders from John until, a few minutes later, he was ready.

‘Sit back,’ John said, pulling his underwear and vest off, shoving a couple of pillows behind Sherlock’s back, glancing down at his scar. He stroked some of the thick lubricant onto himself and settled on his knees, wrapping his right hand around the top of the headboard to brace himself. ‘You’ll need to move with me, if I’m unable to... if I can’t give you everything you need.’

Kissing John deeply, Sherlock trailed his hands down John’s sides and rested them on John’s hips with a squeeze. ‘I’ve got everything I need,’ he murmured against John’s lips, kissing him again.

‘Liar,’ John said, voice cracking slightly as he began to push inwards, moaning at the half-forgotten sensation. ‘I don’t see any work or chemicals or cigarettes or honey in this bed.’

Sherlock laughed, the sound turning into a deep, satisfied groan when their bodies were fully joined. ‘Oh, that’s it.’

‘Yes?’ John murmured, stroking Sherlock’s face, using the headboard to support himself as he pulled out halfway and thrust inwards again. ‘There?’

Grunting, Sherlock nodded, holding John inside by his hips. ‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘Stay, just for a moment.’

John leant in to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, moving down to press his lips gently to Sherlock’s eyelids. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’

Sherlock gasped, nodding again, pulling John into another kiss. ‘Alright,’ he whispered after a minute or two. ‘Alright, go on, please.’

Licking his lips, John withdrew slowly, snapping his hips forward again. Sherlock cried out, fisting his hand in John’s hair, his chest moving rapidly up and down. ‘More, John, more, please, please,’ he begged, and John set about establishing a rhythm of slow, deep thrusts, pushing one of Sherlock’s thighs back with his left forearm.

‘Tilt your hips up -- _oh_ , that’s it,’ John moaned when Sherlock did as directed and John was able to thrust a couple of inches deeper. ‘God, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed this.’ He pushed in a little faster. ‘Sherlock, hold your leg, I can’t--’

Sherlock’s hand replaced John’s forearm and he spread his legs almost impossibly wider. John fell forwards over Sherlock’s body, clumsily pushing his lips against Sherlock’s as he pushed in and out. He braced his weight on his knees and right arm and moved his left hand to stroke Sherlock as best he could, delighting in every little sound that Sherlock made.

‘I love you,’ Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth as he breathed heavily. ‘Let me be on top, let me do something for you,’ he gasped, his body jerking when John rubbed the palm of his hand over Sherlock’s glans.

‘Sure?’ John asked, pulling out and collapsing onto his back when Sherlock nodded, trying to catch his breath. However, Sherlock didn’t give him much of a chance, throwing his leg over John’s hips and sinking down onto him with a loud cry, reaching to hold onto the headboard as John had done. 

‘Push up,’ Sherlock murmured, his face and chest flushed red, the muscles in his arms and legs flexing as he moved his body around John. John thrust upwards, surprising a guttural moan out of Sherlock, whose eyes fluttered shut. ‘It’s been so long,’ Sherlock said, his head thrown back as he rode out the sensation of John pushing into his body, over and over, poised still above John’s hips, thighs spread wide enough to allow John freedom of movement. 

‘Christ,’ John groaned, his sweaty hands grabbing at Sherlock’s damp thighs as he moved his hips at the quickest pace he could manage, rushing towards the edge. ‘Sherlock-- _Sherlock_ ,’ he warned just before he came, his right hand wrapped around Sherlock’s hip tight enough to bruise. He gritted his teeth, breath leaving him in a sound that was near a sob, shoving half of his face in the pillow underneath him as he thrust upwards one last time and stilled, burying himself inside Sherlock.

‘ _John_ ,’ Sherlock moaned, bending pressing his face to John’s neck, kissing and licking and biting and sucking as he wrapped his hand around himself, his arm moving quickly. He clenched and shuddered around John, causing a whimper to escape John’s throat, heels skittering against the mattress as Sherlock climaxed, pearly fluid falling onto John’s stomach and chest. ‘Oh,’ Sherlock sighed, eyes falling shut as he swallowed and knelt up higher before falling onto his side next to John.

Smiling lopsidedly, eyes half-lidded, John rested his hand over where Sherlock’s heart beat rapidly under his skin. ‘I love you,’ John whispered, stroking Sherlock’s hair, pushing the wayward curls out of his eyes. ‘Dear thing.’

Sherlock took John’s hand in both of his and kissed the palm, moving into the warmth of John’s chest and pulling the covers over both of them. ‘Hold me,’ he whispered. ‘Please, John.’

‘Anything you need.’ John drew Sherlock in close and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s middle, squeezing tightly, kissing the back of his neck. He pushed his thigh in between Sherlock’s legs and rolled half onto his back to ease the pressure on his shoulder. Sherlock linked their fingers together, resting their joined hands on his stomach.

Apart from their breathing, all was quiet in the bedroom of 221b. The Tiffany lamp cast its pleasant light over the room, making it easy to forget the darkness and misery of the cold January night outside. Wind and rain lashed against the window but the bed was warm and safe.

‘You’re so brave, John,’ Sherlock breathed.

‘No,’ John said after a pause. ‘I just had someone I’d promised to come back to.’


End file.
